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Lonely House

Lonely House

A house not a home

Made of stone, made of stone

Is all filled but alone

On my street

And inside dwells a boy

Filled with grief not with joy

With a flame in my eyes

Feel the heat

Gripping so slowly at something

The walls of my mind caving in

Questioning death and its meaning

Observing the sadness within

Dealing with people’s abuses

Causing me spiritual pain

Who and what to believe in

But still not yet insane

The dreams are all dead

In my head, In my head

Like the house I’m alone

On my street


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